The Best Laid Plans
by A Benediction
Summary: Sherlock resorts to a deeply reckless means to an end. When sickening consequences result, he realises he has grossly overestimated his own emotionlessness. Now John must take the lead.  M for borderline non-con and language.  Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

**The best laid plans**

Sherlock walked slowly back to Baker Street, and turned the front door key. He stopped and studied the steps. Seventeen had never seemed such an unforgiving number before.

He began dragging himself up the stairs, one hand trailing against the wall. As he was reaching for the door knob to the sitting room, the door opened to reveal John standing there. _Must be worse off than I expected. Didn't hear him. Ridiculous really, get a grip, Holmes._

"John." He tried to speak casually. He obviously failed, as concern immediately crossed the good doctor's face.

"You sounded like you were struggling. Come in, sit down. Do you want a cuppa?"

Unobtrusively, a caring arm was around his shoulders, leading him to the sofa. Hands ghosted over him as they settled him down, a physical extension of the bedside manner. Bless John, there was no wifely explosion of anxiety, no bombardment of questions, nothing stifling, just the unspoken confirmation that, should he need anything, John was there.

"Tea would be good. Thank you."

He sank in the cushions, and tried to repress the shame and sickness coursing through him. _Stupid reaction. It was necessary, it was irrelevant._ His hands were trembling slightly. He was sore, and it made his sickness worse.

John left, ostensibly to make tea, in reality to allow Sherlock some time to compose himself, should he find it necessary. Sherlock closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. _Think about John. Oh, god, no, don't. Not with those other thoughts floating around. _Come on, _Holmes. This is ridiculous._

His phlegmatic flat mate returned with tea steaming in his favourite mug, also carrying a mug for himself. He carefully handed it over – he could not fail to notice the tremor – _damn it!_ – but he made no direct comment. Instead, he sat on the other side of the sofa, turning to face the pale, strained young face.

"Something's wrong. Do you want to tell me about it, or shall I shut up for now?" Gentle, but never soppy. His John. Suddenly, much to Sherlock's mortification, he found himself holding back tears.

"Oh, mate. What's happened?" John was worried now. Sherlock hadn't been going to tell him; had considered it unnecessary; John would only get upset, and that would be annoying… except all he wanted to do was expunge this horrible deed from himself. Suddenly the tears were spilling over, silently. John wordlessly stood up and walked to Sherlock's end of the sofa, sensibly removing the mug of tea; Sherlock found himself making room for his friend, then flinging his arms around him, and beginning to cry in earnest.

"I thought it didn't matter. But it's just so horrible."

"What is, Sherlock?"

"You won't approve." A tiny trace of the usual imperiousness, mostly submerged by this raw misery.

"Does that matter?"

"-". John thought perhaps his friend has whispered "it does to me", but he was too quiet to tell for sure.

"Try me."

Sherlock buried his face in the crook between John's neck and shoulder, taking deep breaths.

"They were people traffickers. They work as pimps in the East End, dockside. I needed access; I needed an in. I succeeded. The four ring leaders are in prison, the charges watertight. Scotland Yard rings with my name. Even Sally deigned to say well done." He loathed that he sounded so bitter. It was pathetic.

"You didn't ask me for help in this." The statement had just the tiniest deviation towards disapproval; the doctor was too kind to vent his frustration now, but it evidently flowed just under the surface.

"God, no. I'm pretty good at being… inconspicuous… in that type of situation. I had to take the place of a poor kid called Mikhail; I had to infiltrate the set-up, see what they'd do to me, get at their accounts. I had to win their trust. It took me ages to find Mikhail. He'd been hand-picked as a gift for the boss."

He felt John tensing. It was too late to go back now.

"The boss was pleased with me, John."

"Oh, God. What did you have to do?"

"J-just what you're imagining…. F-fuck him. Or rather, _be_ f-fucked by him." Curse the fact he was now crying harder than ever, so that he stuttered over the terrible words, in a way he hadn't since he was in his teens, prolonging the time it took him to make his confession.

"Jesus, Sherlock."

"I thought it wouldn't matter. It's not as if I'm a wilting virgin, and I don't think I've got any hang-ups about sex, it's just a bodily function, after all… but as soon as it came around to it, I _desperately _didn't want to do it. But I had to, or I'd've given the game away, could have been killed, could have got Mikhail killed. He liked it rough, he liked toys and BDSM and repetition. I _hurt_, John. And I feel _unclean_. Like I'll never be clean again. I don't feel! I don't get issues! I knew what the charade would likely entail, and I went in with my eyes open. So why do I feel… ruined?"

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock was literally brought up short. Oh yes, John was clever sometimes. There was no way that was the right thing to say, except in this one, very specific, situation. The familiar teasing, chiding, served to re-orientate him, keep track of the essential kernel of himself, buffeted in a confusing storm of unfamiliar emotions. He smiled weakly, and sat up slightly.

"A taste of your communication skills, doctor?"

"Always ensure the patient is sufficiently informed to allow competent participation in their care. My diagnosis is that you are an idiot to think that you could undergo this particular activity and remain detached from it. I daresay prostitutes and rent boys become hardened to it eventually, but I expect it's still massively damaging for most of them. And this seems almost worse somehow. I'm also amazed that, even when you've realised it was awful, you're still surprised to be upset and disturbed by it. Even Sherlock Holmes isn't that far outside the bell curve."

Sherlock _liked_ the harsh honesty of the words; it appealed to his aggressively logical mind. The fact that John had pulled him to lie against his shoulder with an arm wrapped around him, and was holding his hand with one hand and stroking his hair with the other, made it even better. John knew how to offer him tailor-made therapy that his pride was able to accept. Any "normal" person might have shrunk at some of John's word-choices. Any "normal" person might have recoiled from close physical contact after such an ordeal (although it was doubtful they would have placed themselves in that position to begin with). Sherlock was the get back on that horse type, and besides, it was John. His mind, aberrantly blank for the last few hours, began whirring analytically again.

Perhaps he should take direct action; get out on the pull tomorrow… his mind crunched to a resounding stop, as a whole body adrenergic panic response swept through him. _Ah. Definitely appears some damage has been done; I'll need to rewrite that response. Hope it doesn't take years again. Suppose I'm older this time._

He realised that John had subtly responded to him; was soothing him in a way that was quite definitely not smothering, although perhaps it should have been. Quietly, he replied.

"I am an idiot. I just don't like having to admit it, but it appears I don't have much choice about it this time. I'll need to work at deleting this. Hard drive's…messed up."

He dropped his gaze. _Corrupted._ Both of them were thinking it. And it was true. It was horrible, horrible; as if dark _things _were crawling under his skin, and a vile miasma was exuding from it. God, he couldn't bear to even _look_ at himself; how could John bear to be near him? Before this cognitive snowball could carry him away within himself, John spoke.

"Do you want to sleep in my bed with me tonight? You've been through a foul experience; I predict you might have a disturbed night, and I can help you with that, if you think it won't make things worse if you wake up to find another man next to you."

Gratitude was something he felt occasionally. Very occasionally. He had never felt it so potently as now, though. John, operating at his harmonic frequency, had deduced, as effectively as Sherlock himself would have done, that his friend must be feeling worthless, despoiled, untouchable. He was willing, he with the trust issues and the conventional middle class/military background, to spend the night, whilst asleep and at his most vulnerable, next to the sullied sociopath who had earlier voluntarily subjected himself to virtual rape. Immediately, he felt marginally less repulsive, slightly more able to believe he might one day not feel faint and sick at the thought of what had previously been one of his favourite casual recreational activities.

Sherlock accepted the gesture. He felt too shaken to refuse, if he were honest with himself.

"Shower, then bed. Do you have any injuries you need me to patch up?"

So fucking kind and gruff and down to earth and _accurate_ and ludicrously comforting. Hiding his profound distress so as to avoid embarrassing either of them, yet allowing _just_ enough of it to show to reassure that he cared deeply, to make accepting help a gesture of mutual friendship rather than one of weakness.

"One or two."

"Come on then."

John helped Sherlock from the sofa, and guided him towards the bathroom.

-OoOoO-

_So, first offering of dark fluff/angst on my shiny new account (this can't get too addictive – if I neglect my old account, Sherlock and Holmes will sulk – but it IS fun!). _

_Do you know, I can really see Sherlock being stupid enough to do something like this, and human enough to – heaven forbid – experience profound emotional distress as a result._

_Please do read and review. If you'd like more chapters, let me know – I love requests._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John couldn't restrain a hiss, nor Sherlock the dark flush that stained his cheekbones, as the doctor removed his shirt to look at his back. The detective knew what sort of state he must be in, and he burned with pain and mortification.

John ran his fingers absently over an unmarred patch of white skin, reading the situation with healing fingers as the goosebumps sprang up under them at the contact.

"God, Sherlock."

"Not good?"

"More than a bit not good. Does this mess go further down?"

"To my knees, roughly."

"Right, mate. I'll go and get some towels and a pillow. We'll whack up the heating and get you lying on the floor. We can work on you bit by bit and keep the rest covered. Did you want to shower first?"

"Yes."

"Do you need help with that?"

"No"

"Er… there isn't any way showering will… destroy evidence?"

"No."

John felt miserable and cruel for asking, but Sherlock was usually so practical; even now John doubted if he would want to allow sentiment to undermine his case. He started the water running, turned up the radiator, and slipped out of the bathroom, telling Sherlock to call him when he was ready, and wincing as he heard an involuntary whimper as the spray hit his damaged back.

When he was summoned back in, Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bath shivering, clutching the towel around him, and looking as if he could barely stay upright, let alone find the energy to dry himself. Much of his skin was flushed bright pink from obviously almost scalding water, but his face was pale.

John, as gently as possible, set to work drying his flatmate, patting gently with the towel, allowing himself to be leant upon. He rubbed his hair dry with a little more vigour, prompting Sherlock to arch back against the massaging fingers on his scalp.

He then laid the towels out on the floor, and got Sherlock to lie out flat. The room was barely long enough, but there was just enough space if he lay diagonally. He ensured the spare towels protected his friend's already so-damaged modesty, and reached for the first aid kit.

They were a long time in the bathroom, as John cleaned those wounds that needed cleansing, steri-stripping three cuts that needed it, and stitched four more. Where possible, he avoided dressings, leaving the skin to breath and heal. He dabbed Savlon wherever the skin was broken, more for the cool soothing sensation it transiently provided than from any belief in its antiseptic action. His touch was deft and gentle. _Healing hands_ flitted through Sherlock's mind.

"Do you need me to check…?"

"No. It's sore, but nothing dangerous. I can take care of any parts Action Man doesn't have myself."

"Fair enough." John found himself giggling unrestrainedly at the small resurgence of humour from his friend, and even getting a sickly one-beat chuckle in return. He handed his patient a clean white cotton t-shirt and light pyjama bottoms, both fairly new with no irksome bobbling of the fabric to irritate the raw surfaces.

He left Sherlock to tend to his remaining injuries. As he closed the bathroom door, the giggles turned to several half-sobs and huffed breaths. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and paced the flat, trying to regain that emotional equilibrium Sherlock might need.

The bathroom door opened, and a quiet, somehow diminished figure emerged, protectively hugging the wall as if afraid it would vanish and he would fall if he didn't stay close. Strange how young and vulnerable he could look with the transcendent ego stripped away. The expression he turned upon John now looked a little lost, as if something was missing, but he couldn't place it. Patching up his "non-Action Man" areas had obviously unsettled him again.

Briskly, John stepped forward.

"Right, bed for you, you're drooping worse than your poor cactus you keep trying to kill."

"Aspidistra."

"Bless you. Have you cleaned your teeth?"

"Oh. No." Sherlock looked mildly nonplussed that he could have forgotten so essential a part of his routine (the man was meticulous with his personal hygiene to the point of OCD at times). John bustled him back into the bathroom, placed a toothpasted brush into his hand, and lightly supported him one- handed as he scrubbed diligently, cleaning his own teeth and washing his face at the same time.

A tiny measure of assurance returned to Sherlock at re-establishing his usual routine, and the companionable shared tooth brushing.

"Did you want to bunk in with me?"

"Yes please… Sorry."

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Come on, in here, under the covers, listen to mother. Now don't look as I'm getting changed."

As he slipped in beside the lanky form of his friend, he noticed the fastidious nostrils twitching slightly, and wondered whether he should have changed the sheets. Yet, at the small smile that wandered across the sharp features, and its widening as he breathed in more of the familiar smell, he realised that would have been counterproductive.

"Wake me if you need me. I'm not working tomorrow."

"Thank you." Spoken in a whisper, almost inaudible, as a forehead came to rest against John's shoulder, and fingers entwined with his own. John wasn't sure why suddenly he _knew_, with complete clarity, that Sherlock would be fine. He smiled at the dark ceiling.

"You're always welcome."

-oOo-

_I'm really enjoying just playing around with these two. I have several ideas where this could go next, and am receptive to suggestions. Would love to fill in some prompts or requests if anyone has any. And please do read and review._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John slept fitfully, as if he were on call and waiting for his bleep to go off, with one ear open for Sherlock.

He was almost glad of it when his friend began to fidget in his sleep, as at least he could gauge how Sherlock was responding, and it put an end to the waiting. John listened as his resp rate increased, as his head tossed from side to side, and the odd little moan escaped. He was on the verge of waking Sherlock up, when the detective gave a sharp intake of breath, and John could just make out that his eyes had flown open in the gloom. He decided to keep quiet, to just wait and see what would happen next. His friend was usually so intensely private, he didn't want to embarrass him now.

He was close enough to feel that Sherlock was in a cold sweat and trembling. Then, the body lying next to him gently turned over and curled in towards him, so they were touching at several points. He gave a long inhale, then spoke:

"John?"

It was a very soft whisper, but John guessed the observing machine brain had already realised he was awake. He unthinkingly reached over and ran his fingers gently through the damp curly hair. Before he could berate himself for the automatic gesture of intimacy, Sherlock was nuzzling his head into the touch. _Oh. Well, this is something new._

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Almost. Bad dream. Not unexpected. Not sure I can get back to sleep though."

"That's OK. Will the violin or a hot drink help?"

"Not right now", he murmured softly, and he arranged his long limbs to enable him to lie even closer, burying his face against John's shoulder, and giving a deep sigh.

John, not sure exactly what was happening, but knowing he liked it, continued to stroke the soft hair until his arm began feeling heavy, and he felt himself drifting off again.

Sherlock, somewhat to his surprise, fell asleep again too. He half-woke, still snuggled close against his wonderfully dependable flat mate, finding the room filled with grey early morning light. He shifted position slightly, and then felt his leg brush against... _oh. I see. How interesting. Well, it _is_ morning._

As he moved, John gave a little moan... which just sounded a little bit more... _emphatic_ than a normal sleep-noise. He definitely was asleep, just very lightly. Sherlock watched, fascinated, as his companion breathed in deeply, then smiled slightly and gave a tiny thrust of his hips.

_OH. Stupid, stupid, of course. It's been obvious for a while now, and I've been overlooking it. Why would I do this?_

Usually, Sherlock was as ruthlessly honest with himself as he (when he wished to be) was towards other people. It now appeared his sub-conscious had been concealing things from him, and Sherlock Holmes would never usually allow any part of his well-modulated mind to behave in ways he had not first approved. Curiously, yet still in a half-awake state, he examined this new-not-so-new information.

_John is attracted to me. His pupils dilate when I am in close proximity, his respiratory rate increases and his carotid pulse becomes more apparent. He puts up with behaviour that would infuriate most people and derives considerable pleasure from helping with my cases. I _would_ assume that he is simply an adrenaline junkie using my cases for his fix, but he seeks to spend time with me even when I don't have a case on. Conclusion: it's more than a physical attraction. But, more importantly, why has my system security not picked up on this potential threat?_

Sherlock risked another look at his sleeping flat mate, and felt a warmth spreading in his stomach, and a smile quirking his lips. _Ah. It's rather more serious than I assumed._

Sherlock's hand was resting next to John's face, and, softly, just the veriest touch, he stroked the back of his index finger down the doctor's cheek, ghosting over the corner of his mouth, stopping at his chin. A groan this time, another deep inhalation of Sherlock's scent, and a slightly bigger thrust of the hips followed.

Suddenly, Sherlock realised his entire body was flushing and responding. He could feel blood pooling, feel the bristling sensation as he began to match John's state. Abruptly, he was fully awake... and then, the memories of yesterday's ordeal came crashing back to him with such clarity, for a moment he was transported clean out of the room and back to that vile house, with that vile pervert standing over him.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sat bolt upright, unable to catch it, chest heaving, but mind trapped far away.

_He was handcuffed to the bed. His hands were too far apart to free himself. The Bastard came towards him with a lascivious grin, looking him over as if he were a particularly delicious steak._

_"Well, you are a pretty boy, aren't you? Such fine cheek bones..." he ran the tip of a carpet beater (he thinks he's in James Bond) over the features as he listed them..."... Such perfect blow-job lips... Such long eyelashes... They give you such an air of elegant stupidity. Such a lovely cock, too - you're quite a lucky boy, aren't you? But it's so soft..." ...suddenly, he bought the beater down on it with a sharp crack, and Sherlock yelped in pain - _damn - should have seen that one coming - _and then he was touching it with his horrid, stubby little fingers, and whispering, menacingly, "we'd better do something to get it hard, hadn't we?_

_Panic. The brute would become very aggressive if he felt himself to be slighted, but Sherlock was about as far from being aroused as it was possible to be._

_The man growled in annoyance, and Sherlock knew that annoyance in this psycho translated into actions that would be better suited to furious rage in normal criminals. He started to shiver, as the man, an ugly look on his face, clipped a metal cuff around each ankle - _better not to fight - _and attached a long leather thong to each of them. He pulled and tied them to the bed posts - _oh, God, how humiliating - I think this is known as the lithotomy position in medical terms -_ then looked at his prisoner with a sickening leer._

_"Are you feeling ready to satisfy me yet?"_

_He followed up his words with a vicious, double direction slash to the flank with the carpet beater. _ Ow ow ow that fucking hurts... God ...Reminds me of that experiment in the morgue... What?...ugh, even my internal monologue's inappropriate. _Another two vicious blows... Sherlock _had_ to give a physical response, but this was all too distracting._

_He was flipped over. The man was giggling now. He began using a variety of implements to cause pain - too much to possibly be titillating - or anything but excruciating. Sherlock, to his own disgust, was crying now; inflaming his disgusting persecutor still further._

_Every now and again, he was flipped back and inspected, and his lack of physical response to this situation berated. He was becoming desperate, and quite seriously frightened - would he be _killed_ if he continued to offer this perceived snub? He had to think of something, he was Sherlock Fucking Holmes, supreme actor, for God's sake, and right now, his role was meant to be sex worker, and performing might quite literally save his life._

_Through a barrage of pain, he tried to remember his best past encounters - and there had been many (71% female, 29% male at the last count, supplied his data-centre, uselessly) - but they were of of such transitory interest as to be insufficiently useful now. _Concentrate! _He wasn't even sure which thought it was that enabled him to respond, but finally, respond he did, and he hoped that the repellent predator would hold off on the pain games now... That was a mistake. He took it as a come-on, and Sherlock only realised how much worse the next option seemed than even the filthy torture until it was too late._

Or perhaps it wasn't quite a mistake? He was still alive, wasn't he? There was something else_. _He searched his hard drive for the elusive data on why this had felt even more wrong than he had expected it to. Some overriding disgust was to be expected, but there's another emotion there. _Guilt._ _Why guilt?_ The answer was what caused him to start hyperventilating and heaving whilst safe in bed in Baker Street.

_I aroused myself for that sadistic pig by thinking about John._

-oOo-

_Nasty nasty - but I think John will forgive him._

_Thanks for the request for a flashback - hope that suited. How will John react to this? Well, I have some idea, but I can be influenced - please read, review, and feel free to request. Thanks!_


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